


Too much

by Kitacular



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Ethics, M/M, Pain, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitacular/pseuds/Kitacular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis makes a genuine mistake that costs lives. He can't deal with the pain and Porthos helps him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too much

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a happy friendly piece. There's a reason I've termed it RACK and not safe, safe, consensual.

It was too much. It was all too much.

He'd watched a Musketeer die on that mission. He'd missed that shot. If he hadn't missed. That young girl. Her scream. The Captain hadn't even shouted. If he hadn't missed, though...

Even Athos hadn't been angry. If he'd taken that man out, he never would have cut her down, never would have shot his brother...

The 'what if's running through his head were overwhelming. He stomped down the stairs from Tréville's office. Athos met him at the bottom of the stairs and caught his arm.

“Aramis?” he said softly. The compassion and understanding in his eyes was too much.

He pulled his arm from Athos' grasp and continued to march across the yard. He felt Porthos following and ignored him. He stormed across the yard and to the firing range. His temper had been so close to the surface since Savoy.

Savoy. He hadn't protected his brothers then, either. What was the point of him?

He needed to get this out.

  
  


Aramis reached for his next powder sachet and found the carrier empty. He angrily turned to see Porthos watching him silently. It had grown dark and the rest of the men had left the yard. Porthos handed him his own powder without a word.

Aramis continued until he'd run out of powder and his ears were ringing.

It was still too much.

He was full of rage, grief, guilt. He had assumed Tréville would have been furious. Even if Athos had turned that steely gaze on him. Nothing. They all just accepted it. How would he ever cope with this turmoil? At least if they'd shouted he would feel... what?

Porthos' powder was empty and he thrust it back at him. He looked around angrily. The targets were in absolute tatters.

He stormed across the yard towards the powder stores but Porthos gripped his arm. Aramis angrily yanked his arm but Porthos' grip intensified.

“Let go of me,” Aramis snapped.

“No,” Porthos said firmly.

“Take your hand off me,” Aramis snapped again.

“No,” Porthos repeated.

Aramis opened his mouth again but Porthos shook his arm.

“It's time to go home,” Porthos said flatly.

Aramis opened his mouth again but Porthos held his arm even tighter. Time stopped as he stared into Porthos' eyes.

“Fine,” Aramis bit back.

  
  


Porthos kept up his crushing grip on Aramis' arm the whole way home. He didn't let go until he'd unlocked the door to their apartments. He roughly pushed Aramis through the door and slammed the door behind him.

Aramis glared at him.

“Well?” Aramis asked rudely.

Porthos ignored him and strode to the stands, roughly barging Aramis out of the way. Aramis glared at him and watched in stony silence as Porthos stripped his accoutrements off, shed his doublet and found himself slightly unsettled when Porthos removed his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Aramis asked, the unfriendly bite still in his tone.

Porthos pushed past him again and Aramis grew even more angry at his refusal to speak. He wavered when Porthos moved to their bureau and unlocked the bottom draw. Aramis strode over in annoyance.

“It's not fucking playtime,” he hissed.

Porthos stood and regarded Aramis steadily.

“You don't need to fucking play,” he answered, his voice calm.

Aramis gasped in horror and stepped away. Porthos followed and gripped his arms, painfully squeezing him through his coat.

“You need to get this out of your system and you have me, willing and able to take it from you. You've done it for me countless times. It will work for you,” he said, calmly. His grip increased on Aramis' arms.

“You're out of your fucking mind,” he hissed, pulling away. His anger quickly rose to the surface again as Porthos refused to let go.

“Trust me,” Porthos whispered, meeting his eyes.

Aramis twisted in his arms and growled when Porthos still refused to let go.

“Let go,” he said loudly.

Porthos increased his painful grip and Aramis finally managed to get loose. He span round and slapped Porthos across the face. Their eyes locked and the only sound was their breathing.

“Trust me,” repeated Porthos into the silence.

“On the table. Face down,” Aramis whispered.

 

* * *

 

Porthos bellowed into the gag again, the cloths Aramis had forced into his mouth swallowing the sound. Another vicious lash landed across his back and he pulled sharply on the restraints. Aramis had used chains today. They didn't give. He roared into the gag again, his skin splitting under the whip.

'Aramis, Aramis, Aramis,' he chanted silently in his head.

 

Aramis stopped, finally empty. He slid to his knees beside the dining table and gasped for breath.

“Porthos,” he whispered, hearing the muffled sobs from the table above him. He crawled beneath the table to undo the manacles, holding him in place. He dimly noticed huge grooves in the wood where the table legs had given under Porthos' struggles.

 

Aramis' hand felt hesitant, removing the metal from his wrists and ankles. The gag. He needed the gag removed. He had to tell him. It was important.

 

Aramis rubbed the tears off his face. How could he have ever agreed to this? His Porthos. He forced himself to look at Porthos' back. It was purple. There was blood trickling from a dozen or so places. Already he could see raised welts. Porthos' arms were limp even though he'd removed the restraints. Full of self-loathing, he retired to the kitchen to find some water and clean cloths, listening to the quiet sobs from his lover.

 

 

Porthos writhed on the table under Aramis' trembling hands. He could feel him beginning to clean the wounds. He needed to tell him. He groaned against the gag but Aramis continued cleaning. Didn't he understand? Couldn't he see?

 

Aramis sadly listened to Porthos' agitation. As soon as he'd cleaned him up, Aramis would leave. He frowned as Porthos' muffled cries became rhythmic. He was trying to talk. Aramis winced, knowing he needed to hear Porthos ask him to leave. He never should have done this.

  
  


Porthos opened his eyes, feeling Aramis undoing the cloth around his head. He moved his head urgently, trying to hurry Aramis. Aramis crouched in front of him to help him remove the cloths. He wouldn't meet his eyes. He needed to hurry. Porthos needed to tell him.

 

Aramis finally removed the fabric from Porthos' mouth and braced himself for the dismissal.

  
  


“Love you,” Porthos gasped the second the cloth left his lips.

  
  


Aramis kissed him urgently, tears falling from his eyes. He cradled his face, holding it up to him, feeling his cheeks wet from his own tears, the sweat on his forehead.

  
  


Porthos kissed him back desperately. It was important Aramis knew he loved him and everything was OK.

  
  


“I understand,” Aramis whispered, finally releasing his lips. He stroked his face tenderly and, as always, Porthos leaned against his hand.

 


End file.
